


Amelia

by kittenpiano039



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 04:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18381035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenpiano039/pseuds/kittenpiano039
Summary: Countless people lived to see the Wars, countless people died in the Wars. Countless voices were lost in the time, countless stories were silenced by defeat.Should they have made a different choice, the world would not be the same. And Amelia Diggory, lost in the course of history, tells her story.





	Amelia

CONDESCENSION suits you well, Alastor once told me. He never truly supported my career. After more than sixty years spent at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, meanwhile receiving minimum wage for persons of my position, I dare say that it does seem like an act based purely on superiority. Why not give him that, for keeping up the despise for so many years.

Truth be told, our mother-son relationship was never the happiest, and this must also be my fault. I always felt that he didn’t like me very much even as a child. Receiving countless criticism on the least important mistakes did teach me a valuable lesson. Yet here I am, doing something that should bring scorns and scolds from him. 

A greeting card, a brown leather covered journal, a roll of parchment, a quill and a bottle of ink lay before me. It would seem that I am about to write. Though with the quill undipped and the parchment unstained, the journal unopened and the card already filled with greetings from another stranger, a start signal seemed improbable. It was my memory that drags us all down. Thoughts still tangled, needing a pair of careful hands to release them from each other, smooth them out into thin, silver threads as they were. That would require too much effort, I knew as a fact. And that was why I had to keep reminding myself to not think of the wrong side of things. 

Before this moment I had had days, even years of excuse. Leaving it all seemed the most suitable way. Remove me from planning and remembering and writing. Spare me the agony of physical and mental trauma and strengths. In fact, let this moment be the climax. All was well and at their best. All but me.

I couldn’t possibly give up, not after all these preparations, these sleepless nights turning in bed, and most of all, not with so much hand still on my hand. I wanted to get up and scramble out the room but stayed. I fought a gallant battle with myself, a silent struggle with my own trains of thoughts. 

And as I am writing to you now, I want you to know that I see faces before my eyes. They belong to those who have long been deceased, none of which chose to become a ghost. I couldn’t help but think that they just left me alone in the world, all by myself, no one for company. I can’t even complain to anyone about this, because I know whoever hears about my suffering would comfort me in words, and berate me in heads. How ungrateful is that old woman, being granted with so much time but still not satisfied. It is not because I cannot take these judgements, I’ve obviously endured worse in my long time in this world. But, for Merlin’s sake, just spare me their despise.

Readers, whoever they—or you—are, I imagine that brows shall be arched in pleasant surprise after reading each chapter or furrowed in regretful anguish. Both of which are welcome. I should hope that you would not be making faces out of confusion, for I fear I would not have the energy to answer all the questions for them by then. Writing should tire me out completely, and who knows what is bound to happy in the process. 

One should be grateful for what one has, a wise man once said. I wonder if his life was easier than mine. Had he been in my position, would he still say this? If only there is a way of finding out, well, I won’t bother, anyway. I suddenly become aware of the black dot on the parchment before me. I realise that the tip of my quill is to be blamed, though having no recollection of how it happened. Longer, the ink would have corroded its way through the paper, spreading its everlasting darkness further and further away. I lift my wrist and, in the process, exterminate that dreadful sight from becoming real.


End file.
